I woke this morning with the sights and sounds of spring in my mind: the robins and red-winged blackbirds I've seen recently, the sandhill cranes flying over, the pair of swans returned to the
Yahara, the sound of geese honking overhead, the lake cleared of the ice-fishing huts.
I woke this morning, looked out the window, and saw a fresh, thick blanket of snow, everywhere, and a sky that looks to be full of much, more more.
And this is how it's been the last couple of weeks. Warm days with snow melt, then frigid days with clear skies, then cold overcast days, then fresh snow, then warmer days again.
Crossing the threshold. We've survived the
Ides of March and
Saint Patrick's Day and the
Equinox is upon us. And Mother Nature challenges us. Is it spring? Is it winter? When the geese honk and the sandhills fly, She calls us to look forward. When she sends another snow, She pulls us back in time.
A month ago, I was ready for the end of snow. I'd had enough of brown, black and white. Let spring come with her sounds! her dance of life! her greens and blues, her yellows and pinks, her oranges, lavenders, purples and reds!
This morning, though, with white blanketing earth and branch, and spring birds darting from tree to tree, I'm thrilled by this beauty, by the way snow makes everything quiet.
Winter. Spring. Two distinct words, two different energetics, yet nothing is black and white about seasonal change. It's not one day that and one day this, coats and mittens yesterday, short sleeves today. No. It's too dynamic, too rich, too mysterious for either/or.
Spring would be the beginning, if there were beginnings.
In truth, the world's seasons spiral out from one another. There can be fall in summer, winter in autumn; sudden snow can freeze the summer crop, a warm wind melt the icy river. We complain and call the weather unseasonable, but we are not surprised. We are delighted when summer floods into fall, when a fall-crisp day appears like a miracle in midwinter. But we are not surprised. We know that, in the flux of seasons, we see each one more than once. ("Spring" [excerpt], Patricia Monaghan, Seasons of the Witch)
Haloscan:
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Blogger:
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